


Our Own Take On It

by Altenprano



Category: Bandstand - Oberacker/Oberacker & Taylor
Genre: Because there is not enough Donny/Julia, F/M, Post musical, Present Tense, proposal, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 11:25:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altenprano/pseuds/Altenprano
Summary: Donny shows up at Julia's with a vision of how it is all supposed to happen, but the script changes. Post-Musical Donny/Julia





	Our Own Take On It

Donny knows there’s no reason for him to be afraid.

 

There’s no gunfire, no flak raining down from the sky, no screams as his fellow soldiers are hit or blown to pieces, some by friendly fire. There’s none of that, only the still of an evening in mid-September. The only sounds are crickets giving one last concert before they’re driven away by the cold, and the occasional puttering of a car as it drives past. It’s late enough that exasperated mothers, who are either awaiting their husbands’ return, or returning to their husbands indoors, have called any children inside, letting silence settle over the street like a dusting of snow.

 

It’s Tuesday night, which for the Donny Nova Band—finally home after a tour of the Southwest—means rehearsal at seven.

 

Donny checks his watch, even though he knows full well that he’s nearly an hour early to pick up Julia.

 

He had thought about coming earlier, so maybe they could sit down in her mother’s kitchen and he could hold her hand across the table…

 

He shakes his head, before the thought can go any further.

 

He’s been careful, very careful, ever since that moment in the hotel in New York, when they stood in the same room, and, for once, the world was quiet. There hadn’t been anything between them then, only the slightest possibility that his best friend’s widow saw him the way he saw her, the slightest possibility that maybe—just maybe—there was something there. But that was only a possibility, nothing he could hold on to. He’d put it all on the table when he confessed his feelings for Julia before they (effectively) threw away their shot at Hollywood, and maybe he’d gotten lucky when she returned his words with a smile.

 

He knows there are boundaries that he has to respect with Julia, and he treads carefully with everything he does. He knows she’s still grieving over Michael (God knows he is too), and he doesn’t expect her to rush into anything without giving it time. Sure, they’ve kissed a few times, gone on dates to see the latest Hollywood films, and, on days when the band has rehearsals, Donny likes to pick her up beforehand and make sure she gets home safe.

 

Sometimes he tells himself that he does it because Michael would do the same for his wife, if Donny had one. He would make sure she was happy and that she continued to live, even if her husband had been killed in action.

 

Doing all of this in Michael’s name is the selfless answer that Donny tells himself, usually after church, though Donny knows he spends time with Julia because he loves her He does it because one day, he would like to make her his wife, and cherish her the way Michael would have done, if he hadn’t been killed in the war.

 

It isn’t something he expected to happen immediately, though he knows plenty of gold star wives who wasted no time in remarrying, if only to move on with life. Of course, life doesn’t just move on after the war—Donny and the rest of the band, and eventually Julia, knew this all too well. There needs to be time so they can heal, readjust, or at least to learn how to cope with whatever shitty hands they’d been dealt.

 

They need time to heal, and yet, Donny is standing on Julia’s doorstep an hour before he is supposed to be there.

 

He hesitates before knocking, even though Julia’s mother has told him countless times that the key is under the mat (or in the planter on the window, Donny doesn’t remember), and he is welcome to let himself in. Despite this invitation, Donny still feels obligated to wait on the stoop, and image what scene is playing out behind the door.

 

He imagines Julia’s mother is cooking, or in her dressing gown and curlers (it happened once, but Donny is still afraid it could happen again). She probably knows who it is, and maybe even why he is on their doorstep when he wouldn’t usually be by for another hour. He wonders if she would approve, if she does know (and she probably does—that woman misses nothing) why he is early.

 

Julia is probably up in her bedroom, a space Donny can only imagine, since he has never gone past the first floor of their home. Maybe she’s working on a new poem, or going through the box of Michael’s things that were sent to her not long after the telegram arrived proclaiming his death in the Pacific. Or maybe she is still choosing what to wear to rehearsal—Donny knows women care about how they look, though he can care less what Julia wears, or how she does her hair.

 

Donny hopes that, whatever Julia is doing, she is thinking of him. It’s selfish, and he knows it, and for a moment he hates Michael for meeting her. For a moment, he is glad Michael died.

 

He feels his heart twist in his chest, tight and sharp, as if he has been stabbed. He feels the familiar lump in his throat as he draws a breath to bring him back down to earth, back to Julia’s doorstep.

 

“Forgive me,” he says, as if Michael is standing over his shoulder, not quite looming over Donny so much as sheltering him, protecting him.

 

He wonders if Michael would forgive him, if he knew what thoughts had crossed Donny’s mind, what thoughts did cross his mind on a regular basis. When he isn’t trapped in his own memories or racing his fingers up and down the keyboard, all Donny can think about is Julia.

 

Sometimes it’s little things, like her smile, or the way her voice carries notes off the page. Other times, he thinks about when he met her, in the church, or the way she looked when they sang their first set at the Blue Wisp. She is exactly how Michael described her, beautiful, clever, and kind beyond words, though Donny knows there are things that belonged only to Michael, things that are not meant to be shared, even between close friends.

 

“You’re early.”

 

Her voice startles him, to the point he jumps, and every muscle in his body tenses, prepared for danger…and then he sees her standing there, and that goes away. “I…”

 

She smiles, probably amused at his loss for words. She’s holding a brown paper bag, probably from the grocer’s, and she’s wearing the dark red coat she’s had for as long as Donny’s known her.

 

“Sorry,” she says, polite as always, ducking her head as if to hide the color in her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Donny. I just…I wasn’t expecting you this early.”

 

He tries again. “I…” He’s searching desperately for words, for something to fill the silence. Anything will do, he just needs something for the moment. “Let me help you with that,” he offers, already reaching for the bag, which she surrenders easily.

 

“Thank you.” She goes to unlock the front door, and for a moment, Donny is glad she has her back to him. “Is everything okay? Do you want to come in?”

 

He follows her inside, drifting more than walking across the threshold. “Everything’s…Everything’s fine,” he answers, trailing after her into the kitchen and setting the bag down on the table, where he knows it usually goes. “I was wondering if we could…if we could talk, you know, the two of us.”

 

Her brows furrow. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” she asks, pulling out a chair and sitting down. She clearly expects Donny to do the same, but he remains standing.

 

“Julia,” he begins, glad that he can at least get her name out of his mouth, which has suddenly gone dry. He pauses to take a breath and swallow the lump in his throat. He can ignore the rapid tattoo of his heartbeat for now.

 

“It’s okay,” she says, her voice smooth and gentle, like she’s speaking to a frightened animal, or perhaps a child. Maybe she is—Donny knows that she sees him and the other guys as frightened children sometimes.

 

“Julia.” He lets her name hang there for a moment before he continues. “I know you’re still grieving, and you don’t have to say anything now, I swear.”

 

“Donny, what’s going on?” The crease between her brows has deepened, and perhaps she’s finally caught on, or suspects… “Donny, if you’re asking my forgiveness about what happened to Michael, you know you already have it.”

 

Donny doubts she’s truly forgiven him. Hell, he’s not even close to forgiving himself for leaving Michael behind. Still, he takes a deep breath, counting it out like beats in a measure, and prepares to continue, only to find himself stuck.

 

What does he say?

 

“Damn it!” He feels his foot connect with the leg of the table.

 

He doesn’t know what thoughts lead up to the burst of pain that sends him stumbling back, arms held out, ready to catch himself on the nearest piece of furniture. He catches himself on the counter, and he stays there, stunned for a moment. He is crying. He isn’t sure why, but he’s crying.

 

“Donny!”

 

Julia is at his side almost immediately. Sweet Julia, good Julia, Michael’s Julia. She rubs his back while Donny tries to pull himself together. She speaks gently, and at one point, hums what Donny thinks is a lullaby.

 

Donny isn’t sure how much time passes before he gathers himself enough to speak.

 

“I was going to propose,” he says, head hung in shame. “I had it all planned out, and then…Well, I expected it to go differently.”

 

“Shh.” Julia runs her hand through his hair, and Donny feels her press her lips to the top of his head. “It’s okay. Not everything is perfect.”

 

“I know, but I wanted this to be,” he says, lifting his head to look her in the eye. “But I messed it up, didn’t I?”

 

She smiles, and shakes her head. “Far from it,” she assures him, taking her hand from his hair and placing it at the base of his head. “You were thinking about Michael, weren’t you?”

 

He hears the sadness in her voice when she mentions her late husband, and for a moment, he regrets what he just did. But he nods, unwilling to lie to her, now, of all times.

 

“Yes,” he says, his voice suddenly hoarse, suddenly quiet and breathy. “I was.”

 

She hesitates, and Donny holds his breath, waiting for whatever comes next. “I thought we agreed in New York,” she says, her hand moving to his shoulder, but still there, a reminder that she isn’t leaving him, “that there’s no Hollywood script for our story.”

 

He almost smiles at the thought, but instead, he can only nod. “We did.”

 

“Then don’t worry about it not being perfect.” Her eyes reflect the smile on her lips, and Donny knows she isn’t thinking about Michael. Maybe she’s thinking about him, about the life they could have together.

 

He wants to protest, to tell her that she only deserves perfect things. The perfect proposal, the perfect wedding, the perfect children; everything has to be perfect, to make up for the fact that Donny isn’t perfect. She needs a perfect life to make up for the fact that her husband is dead, and that the man who relives that moment almost every night stands before her, asking her to be his wife.

 

He wants to tell her this, but instead, he only shrugs. “It should be,” he says, still quiet, still treading carefully.

 

He feels like he is walking through a minefield with this proposal, though maybe he is overreacting. Maybe he’s thinking about it too much, or letting it get to him, he isn’t sure. He knows he has no reason to be afraid, because this isn’t life or death—it’s only Julia.

 

“Donny, I love you,” she says. She’s said it before, but right now, the words feel different to Donny. She continues: “And I think you’re a wonderful man, and you’ll be a wonderful husband someday.”

 

 _Here it comes_ , he thinks, bracing himself for impact.

 

“But I…I just need more time.”

 

Of course she needed more time, and Donny knew he would give it to her. He didn’t expect her to say yes—he knows she’s still grieving, and maybe his presence doesn’t help any.

 

He expects all this, and still, he is stunned. “Of course,” he manages to say, frozen in place. He’s silent for a good minute after that, then, “The offer stands.”

 

“When I’m ready, you’ll be the first to know,” she tells him. “That’s a promise, Donny Novitski.”

 


End file.
